Playing Poker With Freud
by happyharper13
Summary: It was all give and take, and he gave the next statement, sacrificing just another small piece of himself to be spread out on the table before them -- to be filed into the eager analytical mind of his temporary opponent. post-9x03. NG Slash. RG Friendship
1. Round 1: Time to Pretend

This story is based on 9x03, 'Life Imitates Art' (or is it 'Art Imitates Life'?), as well as my own writer's block over rewriting 20,000 words of 'Juarez' flashback scenes, though I'm almost done with rewriting said scenes. Anyways, it should become apparent that this scene is not supposed to be the one that Hodges sees. Anyways, enjoy!

This is self-betaed, so all mistakes are 100 percent mine.

* * *

**Playing Poker with Freud**

"Have you always been this quiet?"

Her British accent amused him. He felt like she was playing pretend -- a svelte James Bond character, for example -- like he had as a child, which, in turn, reminded him of the MGMT music video. The song started to play in the back of his head, and, for the millionth time in the last three years, he pushed the urge to sing and be merry to the back of his mind.

"Mr. Sanders?"

He looked up. Deep blue eyes betrayed frustration -- but the frustration was still laced with sympathy.

He shook his head. "No." A chuckle fell out, in defiance of his own wishes. "No. I wasn't."

"Why?"

His brows came together in amusement at the question -- it seemed obvious enough. "I didn't know any better. Then -- I mean."

"I mean why are you quiet _now_?"

"How else am I supposed to be?"

He met her eyes this time.

She cleared her throat, before leaning back in her chair and staring hard at the wall to his left. It looked like she was lost in thought, or trying to find the best way to phrase the next question.

"What were you like as a kid?"

"And that's relevant _how_?"

She leaned in to meet the eyes of her patient -- who was growing more defensive by the word. "Psychology doesn't start when you're a grown-up. It doesn't start when you take on this job -- though I wonder if your mask started around then. You've _always_ had an underlying psychological profile, Greg. Just like you've always had a personality."

He leaned back in his chair, smiling as if he'd just solved a puzzle -- or won a game. "You're a Freudian."

"No I'm not," she replied, revealing a smile of her own. "But I just got the first smile -- and the first trace of personality -- out of you that I've seen all week."

His victorious grin quickly gave way to his usual, stoic half-stare-half-glare. "That's not true."

"When's the last time you smiled Mr. Sanders?"

"Warrick just died. It's been a weird week for smiling."

She looked unimpressed with his answer, and that, for some reason, irritated him greatly.

"How much do you smile, in general, Greg?"

He glared. "Am I actually expected to remember these things?" He paused, his eyes clearly searching. "And am I Greg or Mr. Sanders? Make up your mind." It was an uncharacteristic show of imprudence, but the psychiatrist made him edgy.

She, however, just chuckled.

_Of course she'd find rudeness funny. She probably got something else completely out of psychoanalyzing what I just said_, he thought.

"Nice attempt at diversion, Mr. Sanders."

"So I guess I'm back to Mr. Sanders, huh?"

"And I guess _you're_ not so good at fake flirting?"

He truly lost his facade on that one, and that was exactly the opening Dr. Alwick had been looking for.

He remained silent, before stumbling over his words. "I'm... uh... sorry if I offended you, Dr. Alwick." He was facing the desk beneath him more than the psychiatrist before him. He couldn't see her hand, or if it had a ring on it, so he couldn't tell to what degree he'd offended her anyways.

"I'm not offended at all, Mr. Sanders. You see," she said, leaning in to speak in a conspiratorial tone. "I know your secret. I _know_, at least a little, why you're acting this way."

He chuckled nervously. "Do you now?"

She didn't respond, waiting for him to make the next move.

But Greg was an expert chess player, and he didn't plan to lose the match without a fight. Nonetheless, he quickly saw that Dr. Patricia Alwick was a more than formidable opponent.

It was all give and take, and he gave the next statement, sacrificing just another small piece of himself to be spread out on the table before them; to be filed into the eager analytical mind of his temporary opponent.

"Well... um..." He looked down nervously. "You're an... attractive... woman."

She laughed again, this time more loudly, and he responded by faking -- albeit well, he thought -- his hurt.

"That's the problem. Isn't it?"

He looked up, questioningly.

"Attract_ive_? That doesn't mean that you're attracted _to_ me. More importantly, the last word."

His stare remained searching. "Last word..."

"Woman."

He looked down, blushing. By the time -- a millisecond later -- that he had realized his mistake, he knew it was too late.

"Yes. I know you know what I'm talking about."

He glared, but remained silent.

"Play dumb if you want. It's not a pretty color on you though."

She paused, before grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I sure hope Nick finds it otherwise."

Greg looked up -- shocked -- with a start.

Seeing her patient was speechless -- just as she had intended -- Dr Alwick continued. Reaching into her drawer, she drew out a picture, one which Greg quickly recognized.

"Now," she began. "If I _were_ a Freudian --" She turned the photo around to face herself, before turning it around again, to face Greg. "I would show you this picture... briefly" -- she turned the picture over in her hands a few times, clearly toying with the idea -- _some_ idea -- "and ask you what you _see_ in it. How it makes you feel." She whispered the last line with an almost-seductive, conspiratorial smile.

Greg gulped.

"But I think we both know --" She looked up at him, making clear, irrefutable eye contact, from which the man in front of her couldn't turn away. "how Mr. Nicholas Stokes makes you feel."

Greg gulped again, breaking eye contact. He had lost the chess match. He decided that, given the loss and the battles of eyes and bluffs, it must have really been a poker match.

Because Greg Sanders never lost at chess. This game, however, was too complicated for even the Stanford genius to win. A chess game couldn't be rigged, but a poker game could.

She had won this round, with a full house up her sleeve, after careful observations. But it wouldn't be the last round. Greg Sanders made it his mission to win.

He fingered the alarm button on his pager. "I've... uh... got to go."

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Sanders."

He glared back at her before opening the door and sneaking out, more resolved to keep the remainder of his secrets under the radar and out of her sneaky hands and mind.

But he knew there would be another round. That was the beauty of poker -- the one thing that made it better than -- or rather preferable to -- chess. He always had another chance to win back his money, or, in this case, his pride.

There could always be another round. And he would win it. _Really_. He would.

He willed the tune out of his mind, yet again.

The sessions weren't quite about Warrick -- at least not as Greg had originally intended. But they would do.

After all, there was always the next round.

---

_I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms._

_I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world._

_I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home._

_Yeah I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone._

_But there is really nothing, nothing we can do._

_Love must be forgotten. Life can always start up anew._

_The models will have children, we'll get a divorce,_

_we'll find some more models, Everything must run its course._

_We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end._

_We were fated to pretend._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading! I'm still contemplating whether to keep this a one-shot, or whether to show multiple "rounds" between Alwick and Greggo. What do you guys think?

Remember -- reviews are love!

Thanks,

Harper


	2. Round 2: Hypochondria

**Round 2- Hypochondria  
**

The door had been closed, and the office abandoned, when he'd first gone looking for Dr. Alwick again. His search, however, was appeased at the sight of the candy jar sitting on the desk. It reminded him of life as a kid; going to the doctor's, or the counselor's, or the shrink's -- though they never applied that label when he was a kid -- and seeing the tangible reward for cooperation placed in plain view on the desk.

For a child, candy made an easy incentive to sell one's soul. Why not talk, or pull up a sleeve for a shot, if there would be a favorite blue raspberry Dum Dum waiting for him afterwards?

Now, however, as much as an adult Greg Sanders loved sweets -- particularly for quick doses of energy in those rare occasions that coffee was unavailable -- he would not sell his secrets for a Dum Dum.

Butterscotches were a more grown up candy -- his grandparents always kept _those_ around the house, and not just his Papa and Nana Olaf, but his father's parents as well. The jar in front of him had both, and all kinds of candies, for the young, the young-at-heart and the old. He wondered which one Grissom chose when he visited.

"Back so soon Mr. Sanders?"

He looked up and craned his neck to see the door opening behind him.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I can leave if you want. I'm sure you have other people --"

"Nonsense." Her tone was brisk, as usual. "I find that the people most willing to come here tend to be those who most _need_ to be here."

He pursed his lips and thought over her words.

"What if I'm just a hypochondriac? You know -- someone who always _thinks_ there's something wrong with them, like the little girl in the Mackaully Caulkin movie who always thinks she's dying?"

"Of course," she replied without missing a beat. "Your right hemisphere does seem a bit off today."

"Huh?"

She slowly gestured up to her head, as if illustrating something for a young, or just stupid, child. "The right hemisphere. It controls more artistic and creative impulses, versus the left brain's more logical, analytical inclination."

"But that's the left side," he said, pointing forward with his own left hand at the hand postured next to her head.

"That's _your_ left side, Mr. Sanders."

"Oh." He blushed, feeling -- appropriately -- embarrassed. "I knew that."

"I'm sure you did, Mr. Sanders."

He looked up, fiddling with his fingers and with an empty candy wrapper left from another session; it was a Dum Dum. "So... I see I'm back to Mr. Sanders, huh?"

"And _I_ see you're back to playing the same card again, for the third time if I recall correctly."

He rolled his eyes and nodded begrudgingly. "Why bother with the 'if,'" he muttered.

She ignored the last comment. "So, do you have any other tragically incurable diseases you'd like to announce today?"

"Psychiatricaphobia?"

"I'm a psychologist, Mr. Sanders."

"Same difference."

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes.

"The only difference is that you can't hook me up with the happy meds. Yeah?"

She rolled her eyes again, this time adding a shake of the head for good measure. "I think we both know you're not a druggie, Greg."

Not liking how much she seemed able of catching onto so fast, Greg scowled. "Says who?"

"Say your LVPD-mandated drug tests."

"Oh. Yeah. Those. Well I could just keep a stash of spare urine in my locker. Apparently that's what Riley does. Hey, I could just borrow hers! So boo. ya. You don't know that I don't do drugs!" He felt like he'd won something for being able to contradict her assertion, even if it was true; he hadn't done drugs for over a decade.

"You don't do drugs because you borrow an extra supply of urine from Riley?"

"Um..." Something seemed wrong with that -- and it seemed like something he shouldn't be announcing in an office of LVPD.

"So drug tests would reveal that you're not on drugs, but are in fact female?"

Turning his head, he finally realized why his argument made very little sense. _So much for the DNA whiz._

"Most men love their penises far too much to admit to that. So props to you, Mr. Sanders, for admitting --"

"Hey! Whoa whoa whoa." He shook his hands in front of him, signaling a vehement 'no.' "I never said I didn't have a --" He looked up awkwardly. "I _do_ love my --"

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Sanders."

He looked up in a combination of thorough shock, exasperation and a great deal of disgust, with his mouth close to dropping down to the ground. He closed it quickly. "I knew you were a Freudian."

Clearly amused, she raised both brows and chuckled. "Rather judgmental for a CSI."

"Hey. I do my job. And I do it well."

"So, _would_ you like to announce now that you have some _tragic_, incurable disease of the right hemisphere, or a terminal cancer perhaps?"

Greg stared at her, confused. "Uh... no."

"Good, because now would be the time to come clean," she said with a smile. "About the hypochondria, of course," she added with a small smile.

"Ah. No. I'm good. I think I'll pass on the... well that."

"Duly noted," she said as she jotted something down in a notebook. Greg didn't really like the feeling of being judged and written about, like some test subject. He decided that he'd probably just lost a round, without even really paying attention to the game. _Best to switch back to chess now._

He started speaking again, unsurely. "You said the people who come here tend to be those who need it?"

She nodded, head barely raising from her notes.

"Then how come I haven't seen Nick here? Or Catherine? Hodges is the only person I've seen here yet. He barely knew Warrick."

"Who said that this was about Warrick?"

"Wasn't that why you came?"

"It was the reason I came here -- the excuse offered to the department, and taxpayers, for the extra expenditure on a psychologist. But that was not, necessarily, the rationale offered me by the man who hired me, and who offered said excuse _to_ the department."

He rubbed his forehead and remained silent at the drawn out excuse as it skipped around his question, dodging words. But he let it run amuck.

_Her first move was a knight -- surprising._

"So," she said, sensing his cogitations. She straightened the papers in her hand against the desk, producing a hard, percussive sound with the effective message of 'now let's get back to business.'

As always seemed to happen in her office, he conceded.

"So."

_It was just a pawn moving forward -- a move made to stave off having to actually make some pivotal move. But, eventually, not making the critical move would be the same as making a move. _

_Failing to make a decision can be the same as making a decision._

She raised an eyebrow, before casting the next move -- _pushing forward the next piece from her back line -- the bishop_.

"How is work?"

_Never mind. It was just another pawn. She's messing with me._

"Good. Too many doubles."

"Hmm," she said, nodding.

_He moved his own rook forward two blocks. Unexpected and forward; pre-emptively aggressive._

"Now you're gonna ask me how that makes me _feel_, right?" He asked, sarcastically.

Her facial features moved up in a knowing, half-smiling smirk. "Feeling clever, are we, Greg?"

That wiped the smirk off of his face.

"Back to 'Greg,'" he noted, glumly.

She raised an eyebrow, creating an opening for him. "Which do you prefer?"

_This time, she sacrificed her own pawn -- but it was only a pawn, guarded by her queen. He saw the opening. He could move either piece -- the knight or another pawn. It was in his court. His fingers flicking between pieces, he felt perturbation. So he made the easy move, flicking it back into her court with nary a move on his part. A pawn again._

"Whichever is easier for you."

"Well then," she started.

_It was clear that the pace was too slow for her liking, and Greg found remunerations in the fact. But she flicked another piece forward, quickly -- provisionally. _

"What made you want to come in?"

_He chose to neglect the question -- the advance, which seemed to come, again, from the center of the board, averting motion, with finesse, to the flanks. _

"If this isn't about Warrick, then why don't Nick and Catherine come in?"

"Everyone finds solace their own way." She pushed her glasses up toward her face, slipping clipped fingernails down to reveal a screen -- split into four miniature televisions, on some sort of handheld device -- on her desk, which she turned to face Greg. "I had help from Archie on this."

He looked curiously at the screen in front of him. Sure enough, various spaces in the lab appeared.

Dr. Alwick rewinded one screen, pushing it back to a frame of Catherine, in the locker room, looking at a photo. Greg leaned in, squinting to see. He caught a glimpse of Catherine standing, a man's arm wrapped over her, but Dr. Alwick moved the screen before he could see who it was.

"Who?" he asked, disregarding the match of calculating moves and opting instead for pure, genuine and compassionate curiosity, for the sake of his colleague.

"Now, now. Catherine has her secrets just as you do."

He nodded, knowing that was the inevitable answer. He was fairly certain who that arm belonged to -- and how that made Catherine's life all the harder for the present.

The next screen revealed Catherine in an older and less-used evidence room, fingering a silver necklace -- it looked to be scattered with diamonds -- while rubbing away tears.

Dr. Alwick flashed forward a few frames before revealing another photograph -- this one, clearly, of Lindsey.

Frames flipped to reveal Nick, working as usual.

"What about Nick?" he asked, waiting for an alternate, more intriguing explanation, like that offered for Catherine.

"Here he is," she said, letting the frame continue forward. Nick kept working.

"That's all?"

"Is there a more proper way to grieve for one's best friend?"

The question failed to catch Greg off guard. He knew the psychiatrically correct question. With the roll of his eyes -- yet again -- he answered. "There is no right way."

She clapped her hands appreciatively. "Bravo, Mr. Sanders. And I can tell you've been here before."

"Well, duh. Fourteen hours ago. Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to go home in between? I mean -- you're not expected to work doubles to close a case."

"Who says I'm not doing that right now?"

Greg backed up in his chair, a look of disgust playing on his face. "I don't want to be a case."

"Do you think Warrick did?"

"So this _is_ about Warrick. Like I said, Nick and Cath need the psychoanalyzing more than I do on that score."

"And yet you're the one who's in here."

He glared.

_His knight averted again, he pushed it back to sit next to his queen. Hers had made the advance, successfully, while his sat back in shame. _

"According to a source," she began. "You used to be a fairly funny guy." Hand-made quotation marks bound the last two words.

"How far back do your video tapes _go_?" he asked, with revulsion. "Because that's not creepy at all," he sarcastically added, fully aware of the moment years ago, that the exact same words had fallen from Sofia's mouth in the locker room.

"As far as I need them to go."

"But that has nothing to do with Warrick."

"Are you repeating a move, Mr. Sanders?"

_Busted._

"Because I do believe we've been over this before."

He nodded in acquiescence.

"Ms. Curtis's words," she continued. "Were, I believe, 'don't lose that.'" She leaned in, sympathy etched more clearly on her brow. "Do you think you've lost that, Greg?"

He shifted uncomfortably, dismissing all lines -- of both attack and defense -- for the moment.

_In his mind, he imagined that he was in some alternate dimension, where he could cast a shadow of invisibility over his army of pieces. Surprisingly, he could; he cast it over the entire board, realizing that the game had instead progressed beyond chess. Alwick's last move really did put all cards on the table, and it went beyond checkmate. He found himself, yet again, with five cards in front of him, face down. _

_He folded._

"Maybe," he mumbled, averting eye contact and staring instead at the books lining the left side of her office.

"You know, Mr. Sanders, which way people look when lying?"

He glared, yet again. _Busted, yet again._

"Mr. Sanders --" Her voice was gentler this time. "You --"

"I have to go."

"Why don't you take a candy with you? I see you've been eying the jar."

_She moved a pawn sideways, even though the game had already ended, and sideways wasn't even a legal move for a pawn. Yet, somehow, the move made sense. _

He tilted his head, befuddled. "No thank you."

She sighed sadly.

"Mr. Sanders --" Her voice turned firmer, more authoritative and -- almost -- more disappointed, as if she were talking to a misbehaving teenager, busted for getting expelled or for committing some other grave abomination. Her next words were slow, and weighted. "Don't be afraid to go for what you want -- for _who_ you _are._"

He nodded, confused, as he walked out the door. He was confused, but it still made sense.

_I'll win the next round._

* * *

Thanks to everyone -- SageOfSpirit, LittleRed11, The_She_Devil, Standers_Fan and LaughableBlackStorm -- who reviewed the last chapter! Due to requests from all reviewers, it will be more than a oneshot. It took me a while to be satisfied with this chapter. I still feel like I liked the first one significantly more. What do you guys think of the chess subtext? I keep going back and forth about it.

Oh, and the movie referenced is 'My Girl.'

One more thing -- does anyone know how to upload documents to WMTDB? I get an error every time I try, and would like to upload this, as well as 2 other stories, to it.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are loved ;)

Harper


	3. Round 3: Laughter and Butterscotch

Thanks to the reviews on the past two chapters, this is now officially a multi-chap story. Riley will get a significant role, as will Nick. And now, more importantly (kinda), there will actually be a PLOT. When I say plot, however, I don't mean an uber-angsty plot-twist-and-suspense-driven vehicle. The more tangible plot is the butterscotch heist, and the less tangible one is Greg's development. To semi-quote the wonderful Everclear, it's really about Greg learning how to smile again and getting his personality back. That said, there will still be some good ol' romance. This chapter isn't quite 'Round 3' (hence the question mark), in that Dr. Alwick isn't a part of it. However, in terms of Greg's development, it still is another round, even if he doesn't know he's playing. Enjoy!

**¿Round 3?**

Hodges waited silently at the door, and Greg pushed past the trace tech, embarrassed. It was unwritten code that neither would speak of the other's trips to the therapist. Nobody needed to know that either man was less than strong and stony.

A bubbly Riley Adams practically skipping down the hallway caught Greg offguard -- and caught him closing the door to Dr. Alwick's office. Riley stopped and eyed the door, clearly making the connection.

"Hi Greg."

"Hi Riley," he replied, with an impatient edge in his voice. "What's up?"

"How is she?"

"Huh?"

"The psycho lady." She stepped toward the wall, no longer blocking the hallway but instead standing next to Greg, in a rather amicable manner.

He raised an eyebrow. "Is Catherine giving you that hard of a time? Or has Grissom gotten in touch with his feminine side? Please don't tell me it's Ecklie --"

She laughed -- it was a full, unashamed laugh. She pointed to the door Greg has just closed. "Her."

He nodded in understanding, unsure of how to react. The way Riley spoke so casually about seeing a shrink was slightly disconcerting. He went there to divulge his deepest, darkest secrets. In theory at least.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Alright. I mean I was just -- I wasn't -- I didn't really need --" He was interrupted from his verbal stumbling by another laugh from Riley -- this one more of an understanding chuckle.

"It's all good. I know what you mean."

He nodded, though he doubted that she really did.

"I really do," she replied, as if reading his thoughts. "I've got two shrinks for parents. I know the drill. My chief childhood game was 'Let's see who can psychoanalyze Riley better." She said the 'game' in a high-pitched, crudely imitating voice.

"Wow. _That_ really sounds like _fun_."

She laughed again, this one more hollow and sarcastic, though it was still genuine. "Absolutely. I mean, 'Capture the Flag' and jump rope versus Freud and Jung? No competition. Why teach myself hop scotch when even cooler tricks can be classically conditioned?"

He couldn't help but laugh at her own open, perverse admissions. She sold pieces of herself so easily, and with an affable laugh.

"Seriously. Between the two of my parents, I think I've been diagnosed with every dissociative, anxiety and attention disorder known to man. Also, when I was thirteen, they also decided that I was borderline psychotic. That was the standard diagnosis four days a month, every month until I left the house."

"Hah."

"So what brings you there?"

He was, once again, caught off guard, but she saved him from responding again.

"Never mind. You don't have to answer."

He nodded.

"You like it though?"

He crinkled his brows, unsure yet again. Pleasure and therapy weren't items he had come to associate with each other. "It's... alright." He picked himself up. "There's candy," he said chipperly.

"Ooh nice." She rolled her eyes. "Most people get over selling their souls for a lollipop at 11."

He chose not to mention that most people weren't _in_ therapy at 11 years old, nor that candy definitely retained its appeal past middle school. Blow pops had always been more than enough to keep an 11-year-old Greg Sanders engaged in anything.

She continued, unaware of his train of thought. "You, my friend, are still a kid at heart if you're still able to do it."

_You have no idea_, he thought, rolling his eyes. "I never said I took the candy."

"Open your mouth."

He looked at her incredulously. "What?"

"Open your mouth."

"Umm..." He stuttered, but not before she had leaned in and taken a whiff of his half-open mouth.

He pulled his head back in mock disgust. "What the..."

"I guess you didn't take a candy after all."

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "No. No I didn't."

"Something with garlic?"

He laughed again, though he still wasn't sure if it was the humor or the awkwardness and strangeness of the situation that propelled it. "That sandwich place on Maple."

"You're a vegetarian?" she asked, puzzled.

"No. My friend Sara introduced me to it."

"Ah." Her expression was knowing. "Sara Sidle?"

He nodded, though it felt strange to talk about his best friend -- who was, technically also his mentor and, less technically, a sister in many ways -- to him, in such removed, objective terms.

"She's Grissom's girlfriend." It was half-statement, half-question.

"Yeah. Maybe. She was. I have no idea what she is now."

"She's his lover." It sounded like an announcement, which was odd since Riley didn't even know Sara.

"And you know this because..."

"Because Grissom loves her. And, based on what I've heard, she loves him too."

The logic was simple, but less than a perfect match.

"That lady irritated me."

"Not Sara?"

"Dr. Alwick."

"Ah." He nodded. "You went there?"

"No. I didn't even know Warrick."

"Of course."

"She probably said it doesn't have to do with Warrick though?"

Greg nodded, surprised at the astute -- and scarily accurate -- guess.

"Like I said, I _know_ the drill. The stated cause is never the real cause for going in there."

He nodded. "Then how'd she annoy you? If you didn't even speak to her?"

"She confronted me when I got here. I accidentally stumbled into her office rather than Grissom's."

"Let me guess. You stumble in there and she immediately hands you a photo of a dead guy and asks you how that makes you _feel_?"

She laughed, and Greg knew that, this time, it was entirely because of his own humor. It felt good to be funny again.

"Well," he added, confidence already boosted. "We already know that _I_ stumbled in there for the candy. Butterscotch has a memorable smell."

"Butterscotch?" she laughed, just repeating the word in amusement.

"Butterscotch." He paused for dramatic effect. "The food of therapists and grandparents."

"So a musky, old person smell."

"No! It smells good."

"I'll take your word for it. But if _I_ ever have to smell any more of that stuff --"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. But you'll have to deal with the smell anyways. It's in her office."

"Well then. Let her clean up the results of my insanity-enduced rampage when I get a whiff of that stuff. I'm like a werewolf during the full moon. Once that smell takes effect... I can't be held responsible for my actions," she said between a mouthful of giggles.

"I think vampire would be a more appropriate comparison. They respond specifically to smell."

"In _that_ case, you could almost compare it to CSIs then. We respond to the smell of decomp."

"Yes," he replied, imitating a cheesy salesman with enthusiasm. "But decomp comes in a bountiful variety of diverse odors! I mean -- there's a _huge_ difference between the musty, stiff smell of a fresh druggie and a swimmer! A fresh corpse _always_ smells better."

Riley chuckled again at his fervor. "Butterscotch is still way worse."

"Is that so? Well, maybe I can steal the butterscotches from Dr. Alwick's office next time I'm in there and dispose of them as only an expert CSI can."

"Only if I can be a co-conspirator."

"You want in?" Greg spoke softly, leaning in.

Riley leaned in as well. "Definitely."

A shuffle of papers distracted them from the conversation. "Sorry," Nick mumbled as he almost crashed into the two younger CSIs -- whose faces were dangerously close to each other. They had really just been joking -- at least as far as Greg could tell -- but it made him nervous that Nick saw them that close.

Nick scooped up his papers and rushed off, somewhat distractedly, and Greg watched him go.

Riley seemed to read Greg's mind yet again, or at least to read his distraction. "Wanna plan the heist later?"

"Sure thing. Next break." Greg took a step back and crashed into the just-opened door to Dr. Alwick's office -- Hodges had just left.

"Sounds good," Riley said, laughing again, as Hodges stared questioningly between the two of them, clearly trying to unearth the joke. Riley just laughed again, this time more softly.

Greg hadn't been aware so many different types of laughter existed until he'd met Riley. Or, rather, if he'd known about so many types of laughter, he had forgotten them years ago.

* * *

Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm, The_She_Devil, NicestKidsInToWn and Triden for reviewing the last chapter ;)

What did you guys think of this one? Is more Riley a good idea, or do you think it'd be better to stick with -Greg sessions only? Any other characters you'd like to see more of?

Reviews (and especially constructive criticism) are loved ;)

Harper


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